


The Mastering of an Image

by TooSel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, First Meetings, Intimacy, M/M, Model Sherlock, Model/Cameraman AU, Modeling, Photographer John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-26 21:38:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,054
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7591366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooSel/pseuds/TooSel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>“What’s wrong?” </em><br/><em>Sherlock blinks a couple of times. “You- I just forgot this was on camera for a moment.” He seems disturbed by the fact, frowning to himself. John smiles softly.</em><br/><em>“It’s my job to make you forget that,” he points out. “That’s when a shoot works best. When the person in front of and behind the camera work so well that it’s like there’s nothing between them at all.”</em> </p><p>Sherlock is an accidental model, John is an army doctor turned cameraman. Naturally, their shoot takes a turn neither of them anticipated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Mastering of an Image

**Author's Note:**

> Heavily inspired by the music video for Foy Vance's "She Burns".
> 
> English isn't my native language and this is unbeta'd, please feel free to point out any mistakes! Any and all comments are more than appreciated :)

It's nearly five past ten in the morning, and John is more than a little late. His hands move to his camera bag on their own account, making sure that he didn't leave it at the flat once more as he rushes to the location he booked in Bloomsbury for the day. If the model is already gone, he’s going to be in _so_ much trouble. Although he thinks himself a fairly decent cameraman, he knows that he needs the job more than the customer needs him. Being replaceable and late is _not_ a good mix.

As he enters the complex of buildings and scans the lobby, he catches the eye of a tall, lanky man. John raises his eyebrows when he doesn’t look away after a moment. Looks like he’s found his man.

“Hi,” he says, stepping closer. “Are you the model?” The man blinks at him for a second, then nods.

“Yes,” he says. His voice is surprisingly deep. “I am. I'm the model. And you’re-?”

John holds his equipment in place with one elbow and extends his arm. “John Watson. The cameraman. So sorry I’m late. Stressful morning. But I'm sure you know all about that, with your job and all. Anyway, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

“Blimey.” He eyes the man for a moment. “Where did they find _you?_ ”

The man raises his eyebrows and John laughs. “I haven’t gotten someone as gorgeous as that in front of my lens in ages. That’s perfect. You’ll look amazing in the video.”

A soft blush spreads on the man’s cheeks. John’s gaze lingers on his cheekbones - impossible bone structure, that - and he feels amusement rising in him at his reaction. Shouldn’t he be used to people complimenting his looks as a model? His demeanour is somewhat endearing, though. John has had about enough of models writhing in front of the camera like they’re God’s personal gift to humanity, while lacking any and all actual charisma. This man, however - well, you certainly can’t deny _his,_ lack of confidence or not. Funnily enough, he seems to be exactly what John has in mind for this particular job. And as long as he isn’t camera-shy…

“Let’s go upstairs and get started, alright? I've wasted enough of our time. I don't like to work under pressure.”

The loft he's found while searching for locations was a fluke. He didn't mean to click the link at first, only giving it a second thought when he noticed the low price per day. When he saw the pictures, he knew that he’d found the right place.

“What’s your name, by the way?” he asks as he unlocks the door, stepping aside to let his companion in.

The man eyes him for a moment. “You can call me Sherlock,” he says.

“Sherlock,” John repeats, then smiles. “Never heard that before. Beautiful, though. Suits you.” He grins when Sherlock blinks hard, once, twice, then gives a hesitant smile.

“The agency sent you, right?” John asks, saving him from having to reply to that. “Have they briefed you on what’s happening today?”

“Not really, no. It was more of a-" he hesitates slightly- "spontaneous deal.”

“That's fine. I prefer working like this anyway. I've found that it often feels more natural when the models just go with it, instead of preparing days ahead. But you do know this is a video commissioned for some artist's show to play in the background, right?”

Sherlock nods.

“Good. Essentially, you're supposed to completely ignore that I'm here half of the time.  Just _be_ in this room. I'll tell you what to do when we get to that, but there's no seductive sprawling or exaggerated posing involved. It's supposed to be all natural.”

Sherlock nods again, more confidently this time. “Alright. I can do that.”

John chuckles. “I should hope so, with you being a model and all.”

Sherlock opens his mouth, then closes it again and looks around. John sees him scanning the furniture, the huge bed and the shelves, the few green plants bringing a fresh touch to the otherwise light tone of the room.

“It’s just us?”

“Yeah. That alright? I’ve got a very particular way of working, and this project specifically requires a certain level of intimacy, so it's just the two of us today.”

“Alright. Yes, that's fine.”

John smiles. “Great. I'm going to set up the camera, but we're doing some test shots first, alright? You can take your shirt off when you're ready.”

Sherlock blinks, then nods. “Won't there be someone to apply my makeup?” he asks as he starts undressing. John smiles.

“No, not this time. I decided to do a completely natural shoot. I want the viewer to notice that you're not heavily rouged. I've got some powder, but that's it.”

Sherlock nods again. He stops when he sees John turning away to fiddle with his phone.

“What are you doing?”

John looks up. “Hm? Oh, just turning it off. You should do that with yours too, by the way. Phones just disturb the atmosphere we need to create.”

Sherlock, for whatever reason, looks relieved. “Oh. Yes. I'll turn it off.”

He takes out his phone and John dedicates himself to the camera, seeing Sherlock shrugging out of his shirt from the corner of his eye a moment later. He folds it and puts it on a chair, then hovers next to it.

When John is done with the setup – he only needs one tripod today, he'll do the rest by hand - he looks up and his eyes fall on Sherlock's exposed chest.

 _Christ._ He thought that Sherlock held a certain beauty before, but seeing him like this makes it undeniable that he's... well, gorgeous. The fine hair on his chest makes for a stark contrast to the paleness of his skin, his rosy nipples matching the flush of his face.

“Wow. Um.” He raises his gaze to Sherlock's face. Sherlock smiles hesitantly, looking somewhat worried.

“Is this what you had in mind?”

“Better.” John licks his lips, his eyes dropping to Sherlock's chest again. “Definitely better. I mean, I hope this isn't creepy, but. Well. You're gorgeous, frankly.”

“It's not.” Now Sherlock smirks. “I _am_ a model, after all.”

“You're rather thin, too. Do you work out?” John asks, trying to distract himself from the sight. This isn't the first time he's attracted to a model he's working with. Professionalism is key.

“I used to dance when I was younger. I only do... uh, some running, nowadays.”

“Oh?”

“Well, I say running.”

John waits, but when Sherlock offers no further explanations, he shrugs. “Alright then.”

He reaches for the powder, gesturing for Sherlock to sit down. When he's applied it to his face he turns to the camera. “Good. I'm going to start filming now, alright? Just to see how it looks. This won't end up in the video.”

“Alright.”

John turns the camera a little, then presses a button and smiles. “Filming now,” he says, then gesticulates towards the room. “Go on. Move a little, do whatever you like.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows. He seems to hesitate for a brief moment, then shakes the feeling and starts looking around again. When he moves, he begins by making his way along the shelves, taking his time to look at their contents. John checks the camera, then nods.

“How are you feeling today?” he asks, watching Sherlock on the small screen. It's his standard conversation opener. He smiles when Sherlock raises an eyebrow, looking up to meet his gaze.

“Fine,” he replies mockingly. His eyes flicker to the camera before he continues, and John can tell that he's trying to ignore it. “I haven't slept much in the past week, but that's not uncommon,” he adds after a moment.

“Yeah, I know the feeling,” John says with a nod, thinking of long nights spent lying in his bed, unable to rest. Sometimes sleep eludes him until long after the sun goes up, nightmares and memories keeping him awake.

“How long have you been in the industry then?” he asks, moving the camera to catch a wider angle of the room before slumping down in a chair, smiling at Sherlock. He's glad that he already set up the few spotlights yesterday. Now he can really focus on his model.

Sherlock follows his movements with his eyes. “Not long,” he says, a mysterious smile playing on his lips. Like he's thinking of a joke only he understands. “What about you?” he asks, fixing his gaze on John again.

“Professionally? Not long,” John mirrors his answer, smiling when the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches. Then he leans down, feeling Sherlock's eyes on him as he unties his shoes.

“You... why are you doing that?” Sherlock asks when he gets rid of them, then takes off his socks too.

“Particular way of working, remember?” John says and wriggles his toes. “First of all, it makes me feel more grounded. More in the moment, you know? And secondly, today's all about intimacy, and I've found that being barefoot often takes away a certain level of distance between people who are otherwise strangers.”

“Oh.” Sherlock looks down. “Am I supposed to take mine off too?”

John smiles. “If you like.”

Sherlock nods, then sits on the bed opposite John to get out of his shoes and socks. When he's done, they both look at their naked feet for a moment.

Like the rest of him, Sherlock's feet are long and thin, with pale skin and trimmed nails. The socks have left an imprint where they cut into his skin, and John smiles at the sight. He loves discovering these things about people, small details others would dismiss as irrelevant. To him, it just makes whoever he's seeing more human. More imperfect, and thus, that much more interesting and tangible. He'd love to grab the camera and take a shot of the sight, but decides against it. He nudges Sherlock's foot with his, then looks up to smile at him.

“You enjoying it?”

Sherlock blinks, then clears his throat. “Enjoying what?” he asks.

“Your job,” John says, leaning back in his chair. He draws one knee to his chest, wrapping his arms around it as he looks at Sherlock.

“I- yes,” Sherlock says. He folds his hands together, then unfolds them. “Well, it's an- unusual job, and it was a challenge to make a name for myself, but I managed just fine. I like it. I couldn't imagine another one.” His eyes flicker to John's face. “Not everyone approves, but I don't care.”

“Well, you're doing something with the talents you have. Being a model isn't shameful or shallow. That's something to be proud of, you know.”

Sherlock huffs as he shakes his head, his curls bouncing at the movement. His lips twitch into a smile. “My brother would be delighted, I'm sure.”

“Family members who don't understand what matters to you don't get a say in that,” John replies with a dry smile. “A brother, you say?” he then asks, raising his eyebrows. “Is he as gorgeous as you?”

Sherlock actually snorts this time. When he sees John's questioning expression, he just shakes his head.

“Mycroft and I aren't very alike, no. Not by a long shot.”

 _Mycroft,_ John thinks. _Someone's parents really had a thing for unusual names._

“Well, individuality is the backbone of my trade,” he says. “If everyone was the same, art would be dead. Although that sometimes makes it difficult to get along, I still believe that it's for the best.”

“I concede it,” Sherlock says after a moment, tilting his head.

“Also, I wouldn't have a job otherwise,” John jokes. “Well, not that it earns me much, mind you. I still live in that tiny place they- anyway.” He catches himself before diving into his life story. He's not usually one to open up to people right away, but something about this man makes him want to get to know him, and be known in return. He tries to shake the prickling sensation in his stomach as he catches Sherlock's eyes. So focused. So piercing. “It's not the best paying job in the world, but I'm glad to be able to do it.”

“I understand.” Sherlock nods. Then he looks up through his lashes, his eyes settling on John's face. John lets him look.

A moment passes that feels like minutes before Sherlock suddenly frowns, then looks away.

“What’s wrong?”

Sherlock blinks a couple of times. “You- I just forgot this was on camera for a moment.” He seems disturbed by the fact, frowning to himself. John smiles softly.

“It’s my job to make you forget that,” he points out. “That’s when a shoot works best. When the person in front of and behind the camera work so well that it’s like there’s nothing between them at all.”

Sherlock looks at him. “You were distracting me on purpose,” he observes.

John shrugs, then gets up. “You were nervous. Doesn't mean I'm not actually interested in what you have to say,” he says with a smile. “I'm enjoying talking to you. And you're more relaxed, so it's two birds with one stone.”

Sherlock is quiet for a moment, then nods. He looks back at the camera, but it seems less agitated this time. There's a certain curiosity to it, and John smiles to himself. This is exactly the point he wanted to get Sherlock to. This is where he needs him.

John gets up, taking the camera from the tripod. When he sits back down, Sherlock's eyes are fixed on his hands. John smiles and points the camera at him, capturing the expression. Sherlock blinks, then raises his eyebrows.

“How does it look?” he asks, gazing at the lens. “Do you think you can work with this?”

“I think I can work with _you_ splendidly,” John assures him. Sherlock's eyes shift to meet his. His shoulders relax further and he puts his hands on the bed behind him, leaning back on them. John smiles appreciatively at the sight of Sherlock's lean chest presented to him like that.

“That's not to say that we won't have to work on getting this right. You strike me as very energetic. It's my job to bring out your calmer side for the viewer to see.” He tilts his head, letting his eyes move over Sherlock's features. “Curious that they picked you for the job, actually. This is going to be a challenge.”

“You like a challenge,” Sherlock points out. John raises his eyebrows.

“How do you know?” he asks, not expecting a real answer.

“You're an ex-military man. Not just that, but an army doctor. You've been invalidated not even a year ago and you're still trying to adjust to civilian life, trying to busy yourself with your new hobby-turned-job. Of course you like a challenge. You _yearn_ for it. You like having problems to work on, to solve. It reminds you of the time before you returned to London. You miss it, don't you? You're haunted by it, and yet, you miss it.”

John belatedly realises that his mouth is hanging open. He shuts it with a click, just so remembering to hold the camera steady as he tries to process what he just heard. Sherlock sits up straight as John struggles to find words, clearly awaiting his reaction.

“How... could you _possibly_ know that?” he eventually gets out. Nobody knows that much about him. Nobody. And yet this strange, enigmatic, gorgeous man who he met hardly an hour ago just... _does._ A familiar sensation pools in his belly, prickles on his skin. Curiosity. Attraction. Allure. John isn't willing to name it, but he's acutely aware of its presence.

“I didn't just _know,_ ” Sherlock corrects. “I observed it.”

“You... observed it,” John repeats.

Sherlock nods, eyes shifting away from John as he turns his head a little. Evading his gaze. His shoulders, John notes, have tensed slightly. “It's obvious, really.”

“It's not obvious to me,” John points out. He licks his lips and waits until Sherlock gives him a hesitant look, then raises his eyebrows. Sherlock's shoulders relax a little when he sees his expression. Not angry, just curious. Intrigued.

“Go on,” John says, leaning back. “Walk me through it.”

Sherlock takes a deep breath, then fixes his eyes on John's.

“The first one was easy. Your posture alone says military, as well as the way you checked out this apartment when we entered. You were looking for escape routes. Old habits, I suppose. But there are also the dog tags in your camera bag.”

“And it says Doctor John H. Watson on them,” John adds with a nod, understanding dawning on him. “So you knew I was an army doctor. Christ.”

Sherlock nods as well. “You don't wear them anymore, but like to have them with you. The fact that you keep them in said bag tells me that you associate the war with your new job.”

John has never thought about the implications of that, but realises now that it's true. Of course it is. And Sherlock has figured it out before _him_.

“I know you haven't been back to London for more than a few months because you still have tan lines on your wrists and neck. They're mostly faded, but still visible. London hasn't been sunny enough for a real tan since the heatwave last summer, which was almost a year ago. That, and the fact that you still live in your army pension flat, as you almost said yourself earlier.”

“I could have gotten the tan from a tanning bed,” John points out. Sherlock raises his eyebrows.

“With your clothes on?”

John can't help the laugh escaping him. “Right.”

“Besides, you're a doctor. You would never use a tanning bed.”

“True,” John concedes with a nod. Then he licks his lips. “And... the last bit? About me missing it?”

“You keep a constant reminder of the war with you in this job, which most people would consider a healing technique or even therapeutic. But it's not that for you. It's a way to cope with and chase what you had in- Afghanistan or Iraq?” he interrupts himself, looking curious.

“Afghanistan,” John supplies with a one-sided smile.

“To cope with and chase what you had in Afghanistan,” Sherlock says. “What you _felt_ there. Civilian life can't compare. Working in a clinic can't compare. So you seek it in the only other way you know. The thrill, the adrenaline, the challenge.”

John purses his lips. Sherlock's eyes flicker to his mouth, then he looks away, eyes roaming over the furniture without focusing on anything.

“And you got all that from looking at me.”

“Yes.”

“You certainly are very observant.”

“So I've been told.” Again the mysterious smile, but it quickly fades as he waits for John to speak again. John shakes his head in wonder.

“That... was amazing.”

Sherlock stops pretending to take in the room and turns his head to look at him. He blinks. “You think so?”

“Of course. Quite extraordinary, that. Well. _You_ are.”

Sherlock blinks again, repeatedly this time. “I- thank you.” He cocks his head. “Did I get anything wrong?”

“No, spot on. I always enjoyed photography, making short films, that sort of thing. After Afghanistan I couldn't imagine working at a clinic at all. That just... wasn't an option. And I had nothing else to do. So I turned to the only other thing in my life that... I felt defined me, in a way. So here I am.”

“But you're not entirely happy with this job, are you? Not _this_ one,” Sherlock says, gesticulating towards himself, “but this field of work in general.”

John just stares at him for a moment. Then he sits back, setting the camera down in his lap.

“No,” he agrees. “It's funny, because this job is all about people, you know? And I don't actually get along with people. Not really.” He huffs out a laugh, turning the camera in his hands. “So I see them through this lens. Try to make sense of them that way. I go against my own rules, don't I? I try to make you forget about the camera between us, and yet I hide behind it.” He shakes his head. “I don't know. It's complex. Or it feels that way, at least.”

Sherlock hums in agreement. “But you don't do this to hide,” he then says, his eyes narrowing as he takes him in. “It really is more complex than that. Fascination with cameras usually points towards a desire to capture a specific image or situation.”

“The mastering of an image,” John says quietly, more to himself than Sherlock.

“Hm?”

“Just a quote I read once. 'To photograph is to hold one’s breath, when all faculties converge to capture fleeting reality. It’s at that precise moment that mastering an image becomes a great physical and intellectual joy.'”

He shrugs, smiling shyly. “I think it's quite accurate. You're right, of course.” He leans forward, locking his eyes with Sherlock's. “That's what it's all about, at the heart of it. Trying to get something to perfection, to master it, and then capture it for all eternity. Of course, it's never quite that easy.”

“No, it rarely is,” Sherlock agrees. “What is it you're trying to capture, then?”

“I don't know.” John sighs, lowering his gaze. “I think I keep looking for that special something, what I had in Afghanistan, what I felt there, as you said it. But I can't seem to find it.” He looks up, meeting Sherlock's eyes through his lashes. “Well, not usually.”

Sherlock swallows. John watches his Adam's apple bobbing like he's in a trance.

“What was it like?” Sherlock asks, and John looks up, startled out of his stillness. “What is it that you found there?”

John opens his mouth to speak, then stops. How can he explain what he doesn't understand himself? How can he put into words the strange sensation of being so close to death all the time that all you can do is live, and live properly?

“It's- you know, when people hear Afghanistan, they think of some desert, and heat and drones, and guns. But it's not just that. You get there, and it's just- this whole other world. It's not just a battlefield. There's _life._ Amidst all that pain and horror and bloodshed, there's so much life, Sherlock. I was in Kandahar and by God, it's not the most beautiful city out there, of course it's not. But I bloody loved it. I remember walking there for the first time, trying to take everything in at once. London was still fresh in my mind, and when I compared it I suddenly felt so- it's hard to describe.”

He licks his lips, tearing his eyes from Sherlock for a moment to look out of the window. Sherlock, who listened in silence the whole time, patiently waits for him to speak again.

“It was terrifying, being there. And so, _so_ thrilling. I'd never- here, in England, there was nothing I could compare with the feeling of being alive I had there. Of having a purpose. I mean, don't get me wrong. I've seen horrors you can't imagine unless you've seen them yourself. I've lost... men, good men. Friends. People very close to me. And it hurt, and it still does. But I've also saved lives. Stitched people back together who had already given up. And every time we got this close to death, this close to bleeding out on the sand in some foreign country we'd taken as if it was our own... we were so alive. Unstoppable. We just were, in that moment. We just existed, and that was enough, and it was _everything_. Best thing there is.”

He stops talking, blinking as the memories wash over him. Memories he's tried to forget, push away. Memories he didn't want to dwell on, knowing that they would only make the yearning he felt worse.

“And now you're back, and nothing lives up to that,” Sherlock says quietly, ripping John from his thoughts.

“Yes.”

“And you keep chasing the feeling, even though you can't find it, because it's better than giving up.”

They exchange a look, and John sees an understanding in Sherlock's eyes he didn't expect to find there.

“Because it's the only way,” John says, nodding slowly. “If giving up isn't an option, you're not tempted to choose it.”

Sherlock nods as well. John swallows, looking down when their eye contact gets too much. The recognition he saw in Sherlock's eyes made the air between them too thick with tension. He blinks as he takes a deep breath, suddenly becoming aware of the situation. “Jesus. Sorry, what am I doing here?”

He moves to get up, running a hand through his hair. Sherlock blinks at him, a frown appearing on his forehead. “What's wrong?” he asks.

John stops moving and looks at him. “This. Um. It's not supposed to be about me. I shouldn't have kept talking about my personal stuff.”

“Why not? I started it, didn't I? And if I hadn't wanted to listen to you, I would have told you.”

A warm feeling spreads in John's chest at Sherlock's words. He bites his lip.

“I'm supposed to see _you,_ not the other way around,” he insists.

“I can't help seeing people,” Sherlock replies, waving his hand. “It's my job to do that.”

John stops moving, giving him a look. “Isn't that what I'm supposed to say?”

Sherlock stays silent, just looking at him with his mesmerising eyes. John sinks into them, suddenly being reminded of the camera in his hands by the flash of desire to capture them. The look in them, the person behind them.

“We should probably get back to the shoot now,” he says, clearing his throat. Sherlock straightens.

“Yes. The shoot.” His hand moves to scratch the back of his neck, lingering there as he looks up at John. “How do you want me?”

 _Loaded question,_ John thinks.

“I think we best start with you standing up,” he decides, scanning the room. “The natural light's great right now, so let's begin at the window, yeah? We'll get back to the bed later.” He decidedly doesn't think about the images this wording evokes in his mind. Sherlock gets up to cross the distance to the window.

“Be just a little coy, a little flirty, but subtly, alright?” John instructs as he moves a few steps behind Sherlock. “I want the viewer to want to touch you, but not being quite sure why. Play with the camera, be open with it, but don't show everything you have. I want to know there's more underneath what I'm seeing, okay? Show me just enough to let me know that there is, but don't let me see _what._ ”

Sherlock purses his lips. “Alright. I think I can do that.”

John smiles. “You'll be fine. We'll go through it step by step. Together.”

He sets up the camera, checking the light and frame. “Usually we rehearse the scenes a few times, but most of what I have in mind is rather easy, very short. And I find that repeating scenes like that endlessly beforehand takes a lot out of the final product. I'll just tell you what I have in mind, you try it out, and then we'll film, alright?”

Sherlock nods.

“Good. The first one's simple. I'm just filming you from behind in a long shot as you look out of the window. Just don't move too much, then you're good.”

Sherlock turns around, facing away from John. John starts the camera, then calls action.

And from then on, he gets absorbed in the work entirely.

Sherlock is hesitant at first, a little too still, too aware of the camera pointing at him, but John talks him out of it. He talks about the room they're filming in, and the window and the light and the city beneath them, and he listens as Sherlock responds, and by the time they're done with the first scene, Sherlock seems to have gotten comfortable where he is. John recalls him saying that he's new to this job, and he appreciates his honesty. Who knows, this may even be his first film shoot. And for that, he's doing really well.

John knows that Sherlock is probably a quick learner, with all his observing and seeing and whatnot, but the thought that he also has a part in his improvement makes him feel... well, proud.

“Okay, you stay where you are. We're filming a closeup from the side now.”

“What do you want me to do?” Sherlock asks, watching as John takes the camera and moves to stand beside him.

“You just look out at first. Same as last scene, just that I'm seeing your face now. Take your time with taking the view in. I'll let you be for a while. And when I say look, you look.”

“Look at you or the camera?”

“Me.” John licks his lips. “I want you to look at me.” Sherlock blinks at him before turning his head away for the scene. John clears his throat, then raises the camera.

“Action.”

He watches the picture presenting itself to him. Sherlock is slightly blurred at first before the camera focuses on him. The transition is stunning, and John smiles. “Good. Now look at me?”

Sherlock turns his head, the movement so fast that his curls bounce. John films for a few more seconds, then stops.

“Alright. The beginning is good. Don't turn your head so fast, though. Don't make it seem like you've been waiting for me or something. I'm just another part of the view, capturing your attention slowly, okay?”

Sherlock opens his mouth as if to speak, then shuts it again. “Okay.”

John nods. “Again, then.” They start over, and John watches Sherlock taking the view in again. The seconds tick by as the quietness of the room overtakes them, making the scene seem more private, more special somehow.

“Look at me,” John requests.

Sherlock turns his head towards him, slower this time. His curls frame his face beautifully as he looks at John. The light catches his skin, contouring his angular face in a spectacular, alien way. He's beautiful. Breathtaking.

“That's it,” John says quietly. “That's perfect.”

Sherlock blinks repeatedly. A soft, almost questioning smile pulls on his lips, and John's insides flip at the expression, the intensity of his gaze directed at him. He licks his lips, feeling almost giddy that he managed to capture this look on camera.

“This is great,” he says, smiling at Sherlock. “Let's go one more time.”

They repeat the scene, then move on to the next one. Sherlock seems to enjoy himself more and more the longer they film together. When he gets something wrong, he smiles. One time he even laughs, the deep sound resonating down John's spine in a spectacular way.

When John gives him freedom to try things out for himself, Sherlock begins to take the opportunity. During another closeup of his face at the window, John tells him to do whatever feels right. Sherlock thinks for a moment, then gets into position and gives John the sign to start filming.

He looks out of the window for ages, wearing a different expression than before. He looks deep in thought, almost weary. He seems to deliberately drag out the time until John thinks he can't bear it anymore. Then he looks into the camera at what seems like the last possible moment, almost reluctantly. The intensity of his gaze seems to burn through the camera right into John's mind.

“That was lovely,” John praises him after the scene. “Now we're getting somewhere. It looks fantastic.”

Sherlock's lips quirk into a small smile. “Again?”

“Definitely.”

After the scene, Sherlock asks for a drink. John's face lights up, and Sherlock gives him a curious look.

“That's a great idea, actually.” He moves to fetch a glass and a bottle, then hands it to Sherlock. “Here,” he says as he fills it. “Drink something as you look out. I wanna see how that looks.”

It looks magnificent, of course. Sherlock's wet lips, his throat bobbing as he swallows, his long fingers curled around the glass. John's own throat suddenly feels dry, and though he suspects that it has little to do with actual thirst, he gets himself something to drink anyway.

“Can we do one of you walking towards the window?” he asks when he's done, setting the glass aside. “I just want to try something with the light, hold on.”

John draws back the curtains completely, then crosses the room. He switches off the spotlights, then puts the camera on the tripod and adjusts the height.

“Okay, can you do it once so I see how it looks?”

Sherlock obeys, walking up to the other side of the room in slow strides. The brightness of the light flooding in through the window makes the rest of the room seem darker, a play of silhouettes and contours framing the illuminated middle. And amidst all that, Sherlock.

His dark, lanky figure makes for a great eye-catcher, and John positively wants to kiss him when the scene is shot. He doesn't dwell on the feeling, only too aware of the fact that he isn't normally this enthusiastic about his models. Then again, Sherlock isn't just any model. He's... well, he's Sherlock. He's different somehow. Not better, not easier to work with, but somehow that much more pleasurable. When Sherlock nails a scene, John feels ecstatic. When he smiles, he wants to join in. When he makes a suggestion, he's ready to adjust until they're both happy with the outcome.

This is... unusual. Slightly dangerous territory, perhaps.

But John has never been one to run from the unusual, and he's never had the greatest sense of self-preservation either, so he bans those thoughts to the back of his mind and focuses on the pleasure this shoot is giving him.

They add a dressing gown for the next scene, experimenting with different states of undress before settling on a sexy, playful state of _barely dressed_. John licks his lips as the scene unfolds exactly as he imagined it – no, better. Sherlock shifts his weight, stepping to the side with one leg, slowly moving over the floor. John moves the camera up as he turns his body to the side, still looking out. The dressing gown is loosely wrapped around his torso, the fabric weaving beautifully as he pulls it over one shoulder, leaving the other one exposed.

“Gorgeous,” John breathes out when he ends the shot. Sherlock's face flushes deliciously, and _that_ is gorgeous as well.

“Okay, next up are the chair scenes,” John says before his staring becomes creepy. He puts the chair in front of the shelves, then asks Sherlock to sit. They move around a little until John is content with the setup. They do several scenes like that. Sherlock sweeping an errant curl out of his face, looking at John, then into the camera. Open, as if he's waiting for something. Sherlock straightening, taking a deep breath as if composing himself, preparing for battle.

It's at this point, when he's filming another closeup of his face, that John realises how close they're sitting together. Sherlock looks to the side, then up into camera in silence, and John can see every line on his face, every crease around his eyes up close. The intimacy is only heightened by the quietness surrounding them. Their shared breaths, whenever John isn't giving directions, are the only sounds in the room.

The remaining closeups on the chair feel like a blur.

“Okay, same frame, just tilt your head a little downwards. Smile a bit?”

“Can you put both your hands on your neck, like you're trying to hold on to it? Yeah, just a bit more- just like that. Now look down, then slowly up, okay? Ready?”

“Put both your hands together, in front of your chin, covering your mouth a little- no, not completely. That's good. Like that. Look away, to the side, just past me. Like you're deep in thought about something that's making you sad, alright? Then move your head up a little, so I can see your mouth opening... yes, like that, like you're trying to take a deep breath to calm yourself. God. Gorgeous.”

“Now close your eyes, as if you're in pain, and swallow. Let your head fall back a little more, make it look almost resigned- perfect. _Perfect,_ Sherlock.”

When John checks his watch after the last scene, his eyebrows shoot up. Though it didn't feel like it, hours have passed since they started filming.

“Short break?” John asks, and Sherlock nods. While John fetches something to drink and an apple, Sherlock gets up and walks around the room. John soon gives up looking at the footage from the day and instead focuses on Sherlock.

He almost seems like he's looking for something as he takes the room in, examining it so closely John nearly feels like he's watching a hunter seeking his prey. Eventually Sherlock's focus narrows on the shelf. He takes out a book and leafs through it with the utmost focus. John has never seen that expression before on anyone. It's as if he's lost to the world. He raises the camera almost subconsciously, filming Sherlock's examination in silence.

Sherlock doesn't notice. He goes through book after book, until his eyes widen and he looks up, then grabs a second book and sinks onto the bed. He seems to compare something before exhaling audibly. He looks up, only remembering himself when he meets John's eyes. Then his gaze falls on the camera. John stops filming and lowers it, clearing his throat.

“That's... I don't know what you did there, but it was good. Looks great on tape.”

Sherlock stares at him with wide eyes. “Oh. I didn't know you were filming.”

“I know.” John bites his lip. “That okay? I can delete the footage if you want me to, but... it looks amazing, frankly.”

Sherlock shifts a little. “No, it's fine,” he says. “You can... use it. If it's good.”

“It's better than that,” John assures him with a beaming smile. Sherlock scratches his neck, and his hand catches John's attention. He follows the movement, then gets up and crosses the distance between them. Sherlock watches him as he reaches out to take his hand in his, fondling the long fingers.

He ignores the warm feeling holding Sherlock's hand evokes in his chest, instead saying, “You have such beautiful hands. There's no way I'm not using them in a shot, they're too...” He trails off in search of the right word, never finding it. Strong. Delicate. Tended. Definitely fitting the man they belong to, he thinks.

Sherlock clears his throat, and John nearly drops his hand. “Alright. We can continue now, if you like. What do you want me to do?”

John lets go of him, taking a step back. “How about..." He turns around, pointing at the chair. “Sit down again?”

Sherlock obeys, and John fetches the tripod. Then he sets up the camera for an extreme close up of the lower half of his face.

“Can you drag your thumb over your chin? Slowly, like you're deep in thought, not even realising it. And then over your bottom lip.” Sherlock does as he's told and John swallows, ignoring the warmth pooling in his stomach at the sight. Although he knows that this is artificial, it feels so... sensual. His voice is rough when he says, “Amazing. One more time, exactly like that, yeah?”

He has to clear his throat after the scene, bringing a little distance between himself and Sherlock by getting up.

“Okay. The bed now,” he announces, his stomach tingling with anticipation. He watches Sherlock get onto the bed, looking at him questioningly.

“We'll start with you sitting up,” he says. Sherlock draws the sheet over his legs as he gets comfortable. John would like to pretend that the image of Sherlock half-naked in bed isn't etching itself in his brain, but he knows it's a lie.

The first scene does nothing to shake the intimate feeling that has come over him. It's strange, because this is exactly what he strives for when he works, and yet it's threatening to overwhelm him now.

Sherlock in this scene is breathtaking. They went through it a couple of times until he got it right, and oh, how right he's getting it now. One of his hands is on his neck, the other on the sheet. He looks down for a long time, then up into camera in an almost demanding, accusing way. John can't suppress a shiver when he sees the look in his eyes.

After the scene he moves to the side, zooming in on Sherlock's shoulder. When he looks John's way, the lower half of his face appears in the frame. His lips are at the centre of the shot, and John is glad that he has an excuse to stare at them now. They really are one of a kind, with their almost exaggerated bow shape.

“Can you open your mouth, just a little?” he mumbles, unwilling to disturb the quiet peacefulness they have here. “Just part your lips. Yes, like that. One more time?” They repeat the shot, and John can't help but praise Sherlock again as they set up the next scene.

Sherlock seems to absorb the compliments like air. It's beautiful to watch. John wonders to himself how it's possible that a man this gorgeous, this incredible, has gotten so little acknowledgement and praise in his life that he still reacts to it the way he does.

His knees are drawn to his chest now, his arms resting on top of the white sheet. John sits on the foot of the bed, moving until he finds the right angle. He's very close to Sherlock, again, and the air between them is thick with a tension he can't explain. Doesn't necessarily want to.

“Alright, this is just another closeup, the same goes as before, yeah? Make me want to touch you.” His voice breaks on the last word, and Sherlock's eyes, fixed on his face, seem to see way too much. He moves around until John signals him to stop, then leans in just a little. They are so _close_. Close enough that John thinks he can feel the heat of his skin.

“Is this right, John?” Sherlock asks, his voice hoarse. “Do I make you want to touch me?"

The air seems to leave the room. John swallows, unable to focus on anything but Sherlock's face, only inches away from his own. His captivating eyes. The mole over his eyebrow. His full, lush lips, slightly parted. He's so close that John can _smell_ him.

“So much,” he admits, not quite knowing why, and it's all he gets out before they're both leaning in. The last thing he sees are Sherlock's eyes falling closed before their lips meet in a gentle kiss.

When John was seven years old, he climbed a tree to save a cat that had gotten stuck there. It wasn't a very high tree, but John, at age seven, wasn't a very tall person, and when he tried to reach the cat, he slipped and lost his balance. The short, sweet moment between falling and hitting the earth is something he'll never forget. It was electrifying, moving with nothing to hold him, free of all restrictions. It only felt a little bit like falling, and a whole lot more like flying.

If he had to describe what kissing Sherlock felt like, that moment would probably come closest. They're barely touching, barely holding on to each other, and yet, it's everything. It's a kiss so soft and tender that it tears at John's insides. It's the answer to all the questions he didn't think to ask. It's the most fulfilling thing John has done since he returned from Afghanistan, and when they part, he struggles to hold back a wide smile.

“That was very unprofessional of me,” he breathes out. Sherlock's eyelids flutter as his warm breath meets his skin.

“I beg to disagree,” he mumbles, then pulls John down for another kiss. This time they both open their mouths at the same moment, groaning when their tongues meet. Their explorations are somewhat clumsy, showing John that neither of them has had much experience lately, but he doesn't care, because it feels _amazing._

They kiss for what feels like endless minutes. John abandons the camera on the bed, hesitantly moving his hands to Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock sighs encouragingly into the kiss, sweeping his tongue over John's bottom lip in response, causing him to let out a low groan.

They're both panting when they eventually break apart for air. John moves a hand into Sherlock's hair, cupping the back of his head, cherishing the way his soft curls feel between his fingers. “I should say that we ought to continue with the shoot, but I really don't want to,” he mumbles.

“No,” Sherlock agrees, leaning back against the pillow. Even if he hadn't pulled him along, John would have followed his lead. “This is far too nice. Just a few more minutes,” he mutters, then leans in to capture John's lips in another kiss.

By the time they let go of each other, John knows the shape and taste of Sherlock's mouth intimately. They both stay quiet, because no words are needed. John's heart beats hard in his chest as he catches his breath, Sherlock's fingers moving over his skin, through his hair endlessly.

“We still need to film a couple more scenes,” John mumbles after a while, hating himself for interrupting the moment.

Sherlock sighs, but nods. “Alright, let's get it done,” he says, long-suffering, and John takes his hand to press a kiss to his wrist before fetching the camera again.

They film Sherlock lying on the pillow, looking at John, covered with the sheet. His hand is at his mouth (oh, he knows _exactly_ what kind of effect he has on him, John thinks with a smile), and he looks deep in thought. He moves his leg under the cover, then averts his eyes from the camera.

The final scene on the bed is simple, an extreme close up of Sherlock's chest with the untied dressing gown. He drags his fingers over the rim of the fabric, back and forth, slowly, over and under the gown. It's as simple as it is effective. John barely hits the button before leaning in to press a kiss to Sherlock's lips, taking him by surprise before he responds in kind.

The last scene they do is Sherlock sitting on the floor, cross-legged, drumming his fingers on the ground. Like everything else it looks amazing, far too good to justify the amount of times John asks to redo the shot. A little self-indulgence doesn't hurt, he tells himself. And Sherlock doesn't seem to mind either, the moment when he looks up and their eyes lock over the camera never once losing its tension.

They repeat the shot a couple of times until John has to admit that it's perfect, and he can barely believe it when he says “Cut!” for the last time. They both look at each other for a moment, blinking as reality overtakes them again.

“Thank you _so_ much,” John says quietly. “That was absolutely incredible.” He shakes his head. “You know how I said it's never that easy to capture perfection?”

Sherlock nods. “Well, sometimes you get close.” He smiles, then takes a deep breath and moves to pull himself up on a piece of furniture.

He extends a hand to Sherlock, who takes it immediately. When they're both standing, neither of them lets go for a moment. John clears his throat when he realises that they've passed handshaking territory and have gone straight to handholding. Sherlock loses his grip on him at that, and their hands drop to their sides as they let go. John feels the loss of contact acutely.

They collect their things in silence, but it's not uncomfortable. If anything, it's wistful. John hasn't had a job this fantastic in ages, and he hasn't met anyone as amazing as Sherlock in... well, ever. Having to step out of the little bubble they've created feels wrong, now that they've gotten to know each other like that.

Sherlock slips into his shirt and John averts his eyes, trying not to feel too disappointed. He sits down as he puts his socks and shoes back on, looking up as Sherlock exhales a silent _oh_. When he catches sight of his face, he quirks an eyebrow. Sherlock looks positively ecstatic with his phone in his hand, reading his messages.

“Oh?” John repeats, smiling questioningly as Sherlock's eyes shoot up to meet his. “Something up?”

“Case,” Sherlock says, and John frowns.

“Case?” he asks, not following.

“I have one. Now.”

John blinks up at him in incomprehension. “What are you talking about?”

Sherlock tucks his phone away, then straightens. He takes a deep breath before looking at John's face again, the same intensity in his eyes he's seen there before.

“I'm a detective,” Sherlock says quietly, closely watching John's reaction. “A consulting detective. The only one in the world. I invented the job.”

John closes his mouth with a click, at a loss. “Yeah, you would,” he finally says.

Then he clears his throat and shakes his head once. “Yeah, no. Still not getting it. Explain, please?”

“When we met earlier, down in the lobby, I was... investigating. I was trying to get a look at this loft, but I was told that it was rented for the day. When you showed up with your camera equipment minutes later, it was clear that you were the one with the key. And when you mistook me for your model, I- well, I saw an opportunity.”

John breathes out through his mouth. After the shoot he's just had he really didn't think that Sherlock could surprise him any more. And yet...

“So, in fact, you're not actually...”

“No.” Sherlock looks slightly uncomfortable. “I actually saw the real model leaving as I was asking for the key. So I knew that he wouldn't... disturb.”

“Oh.” John shuts his mouth. That explains a lot, actually. 

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. John blinks in silence, going over their earlier conversation in his head again.

“So when you said running earlier-”

“I meant running around the city to catch criminals, yes,” Sherlock finishes.

“And when you talked about your job-”

“I wasn't talking about being a model, no.”

“Christ.”

They're both silent for a moment. John looks at his camera. He raises a hand to touch his lips without meaning to, tracing where Sherlock kissed him earlier. He still feels a tingling sensation where they touched. When he notices Sherlock's eyes on him, he lets his hand fall.

“So.” He clears his throat.

“So.”

“I'm not sure I can use this now,” John mumbles, waving the camera. “Still, can't really say that I regret it. Best shoot I've had in my life, I can tell you.”

The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitch. “Same here,” he says dryly, and John can't help himself. He stands on his tiptoes, leaning up to grab the back of Sherlock's neck and guide him down. He kisses him hard until there's no sign of a smile left on his face, until they're both panting, until Sherlock mumbles against his lips, “ _John._ ”

John breaks the kiss, touching his mouth with the back of his hand before taking a step back.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, shaking his head once. “Sorry, I just, if this is the last I'm seeing of you, I wanted to have a little more to remember you by. And for you to remember me.”

Sherlock blinks, then steps closer. “What are you apologising for?” he asks, leaning down to capture John's lips in another, agonisingly soft kiss. Their lips barely touch, grazing each other as they breathe in at the same time. Sherlock keeps his eyes open until the last moment, when they seem to fall closed on their own account. They just breathe for a moment, then move to meet again at the same time. It's quiet, so quiet while they kiss. John can hear every breath Sherlock takes, every hitch, the rustling of his clothes as he leans even closer. His own blood rustling in his ears. The sound their lips make as they part and meet again.

“It doesn't have to be,” Sherlock murmurs, drawing back slightly. His cheeks are endearingly flushed, and his eyes are fixed on John's like he's the solution to a particularly tricky problem.

John looks up. He licks his lips, cherishing the taste of Sherlock that still lingers there. “Hm?”

“The last you see of me. I'm not- I don't usually do- _this._ But I... like company when I go out. I could use a fresh pair of eyes to help me _see_ , too.”

His eyes drop to John's camera, and understanding dawns on him.

“Oh?” John fiddles with the equipment, biting his lip as he blinks up at him. “Well, I'm free for the rest of the day, if that's what you mean. Or...”

“Or...” Sherlock echoes, raising his eyebrows. “You said you still live in your army pension flat.”

John tries to hide the smile spreading on his lips, but finds himself unable to. “Yeah,” he says, cocking his head. “You don't happen to have a vacancy, do you?”

“I do, actually. I got a special offer for a flat at Baker Street. It's a great deal if we share it.”

“Mhh,” John hums, nodding his head in consideration. Their eyes meet, and both of them begin to grin as they look at each other.

“Well, that seems worth looking into,” John says, both of them well aware that his decision is made.

Sherlock's eyes crinkle at the corners as he reaches for his coat.

“Coming, then?” he asks, slipping into it. John grabs his bag and nods, already reaching for the door.

“God, yes. Coming.”


End file.
